Rainbows
by MFrostDelaney

Her childhood is invaded by the red of rape,
her trust is stripped of blue by every spoken word,
her tongue is turned to tintless mute, will not be heard
for speaking has no pigments that the hurt can shape.

But books on shelves hold hues of hope–their words within.
The bindings beckon fire brick and tawny: Read!
The pages paint their amber, fuchsia, mauve. Indeed
this child, engrossed, allows an azure mind begin.

And none too soon because she sees the world is true
to tinctures where the shades are only black and white,
where people rush to steely fight or shadow flight.
But in those books she sees an iridescent view.

She learns to golden dance, and languages to sing,
in strokes on paper, giving back a color wheel
in pages, books with crystal clarity, surreal
with truth for all who live in grays to which they cling.

Her fingers, no, her mind bursts rainbows in her tomes
and teaches how to free a bird, within her poems.



 

Return to: